Leaving Berlin after five days, four of which were production, for the fair city of Amsterdam, where my wife will join me and we will wallow in Dutch Masters--art, not cheap cigars.
I've enjoyed Berlin--as I mentioned in previous posts, their overt contrition and public memorials to their genocide is admirable. Still, yesterday, when we traveled east past broad expanses of rail yards, seeing those tracks--those very tracks that led to death, well, it chilled me.
Just like the chill I get each time I pass the spot on the Grand Central Parkway where my Gypsy cab-driver spun out of control and into a concrete barrier and almost killed me.
I'll always feel a little pain there.
And here, too.
There are some things, well, no matter how you try, they're imprinted. Like a salmon returning to his birth-river to spawn.
I felt at home in Germany, much of the time. The greetings I received for being a "Tannenbaum," were spontaneous, friendly and fun.
Still, there's that crash.
I can't get over.
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